Latapia.

A sombra do beija-flor afunda-se na tarde sem fim, faz calor mas há vento, há alegria mas tudo lento. O gato dorme na sombra, mas espera pelo momento, a borboleta dança no ar, facilmente resiste até se cansar. A torneira pinga e vai pingando, por cada gota uma liberdade finita, por cada poça uma dimensão restrita. O aroma do sexo acabado de fazer, foi satisfatório, ás vezes a doer, o eco dos gemidos perdidos em lazer.

The Lodge.

In here times slows down, I become a single fragment of my former self, breathing, feeling, experiencing a set of complementary distortions bent on numbing the outer reality.

The Boy.

One evening. He laughed, he laughed some more, he kept laughing until he was no more. One day he believed, he used to believe, he jumped, he used to jump. Crossing distances, he used to cross, sometimes running, sometimes jumping, until he was at a loss. He used to dream with distant shores, sometimes forests, sometimes fire. one night. He burned inside out from desire.

(L)

As the fog slowly lifts from the landscapes in your eyes, it reveals every corner of deception and embraced illusions that have been fed to you, through years, your senses unbecoming of numbness are purified to the stark point of sharp knives, ready to unleash, what is considerable and justified, it’s dawn, it’s time.

(N)

Close your eyes, create your own night, the dream is at hand, slipping through fingers, the guardians of tongues deny simple pleasures, while they can’t see, we illegally taste.

(F)

As it burns, it destroys, but also heals.

Nature.

Unrestrained creative process is chaotic and disorderly, the beauty of the spontaneous gives birth to primal instances accumulated through time and moment, in voracious instances creation is an end through natural means.